Soup's On!

I was just tagged by the Lady Miss Cheryl, challenging me to keep the following meme alive. And fearing that some horrible fate will greet me if I don't comply, not to mention being constantly challenged to find something ... anything ... amusing to blog about (lest the natives get restless, and trust me I never hear the end of it when they do), I'm game.

So here goes:

· Find the nearest book
· Name the book
· The author
· Turn to page 123
· Go to the fifth sentence on the page
· Copy out the next three sentences and post to your blog.
· Tag three more folks.

Nearest Book: The Joy of Cooking, 75th Anniversary Edition (4500 recipes for the way we cook now).

I really don't know why this is sitting on my coffee table right now. I bought it at Costco after seeing an article in the New York Times, which talked about:

The Authors: Irma S. Rombauer, Marion Rombauer Becker and Ethan Becker

Irma was the orginal author back in the '30s, who threw herself into chronicling her recipes as a way to distract herself from her husband's suicide. So I'm thinking the original version may have been titled The Joy of Cooking Sure Beats the Shithole That's the Rest of My Life. Or something like that. My hope is that Mr. Rombauer didn't kill himself out of financial concerns, because after Joy's publication, ol' Irma got richity, rich, rich. Plenty of joy to go 'round.

Marion was Irma's daughter. She's dead. Ethan is Marion's son. And heir to the throne. Somewhere along the publishing line, they got in bed with Scribner, who now mostly controls the rights and has been known to bring in a food editor to reimagine the whole thing for a new edition. As happens with most children who see the change of something their family was a part of as a change to the actual family ... instead of, say, just an update of a cookbook ... Ethan has been pretty pissy about each version since his mother and grandmother were no longer deeply involved.

To which I say, Ethan, honey ... seriously. There are only so many uses for cream of mushroom soup that the market needs these days. And we have these amazing things called microwaves and food processors. Not to mention frozen puff pastry. Let's not keep looking back, okay? Also not to mention that grandma is dust. Worm food. Pushing up daisies. She doesn't give a damn, and you look like an idiot. Go count your fortune and shut it.

Turn to page 123, go to the fifth sentence on the page and copy out the next three sentences:

No matter what the soup, a small quantity of salt pork, a ham hock or a few slices of bacon will add flavor and depth. As for stocks, there are three simple methods for removing fat from soup. If you chill the soup, the fat will solidify and it is then easy to spoon it off; or float a paper towel on the surface of warm soup, and when it has absorved as much fast as it will hold, discard.

A good friend, Michael Hambone, once told me that there's no food that can't be improved by the addition of gravy, cheese, bacon or frosting. It's got to be heartening for him to be validated by this venerable tome.

And this defatting thing is a pickle, let me tell ya. The chilling trick really works the best. But whoever cooks with enough time to chill his or her stock probably also completes his or her Christmas shopping by July in order to fully "enjoy the holiday season." These people can't be trusted and must be destroyed.

I'm also pretty sure they're the same people who devised the urban legend that floating a paper towel on top of a hot liquid would result in defatting it ... instead of the real-life version where you frantically plunge your hands into scalding liquids in a futile attempt to retrieve a paper towel as it sinks like the titanic to the bottom of your soup pot.

"Is that rice?" they'll ask you as they pick soggy white bits from their molars. "No," you'll say with a smile. "Bounty."

I'm a tagging:

The professional ex-wife.
The Christmas Queen.
The Little Dutch Boy.

Jim & Tammy Faye's Prodigal Son

Oh. My. God.

The Sundance Channel is airing a series called One Punk Under God, an original documentary about Jay Bakker, the son of Jim and Tammy Faye.

Run to your f*ing Tivo right now. Right this very second, I tell you. And snap up every episode that you can. This is some amazing TV.

Seriously.

Okay. So. Jay is a punked out preacher's son with a lip ring and tattoos. His cup runneth over with ink, and he has full sleeves done on both arms. Heaven only knows what else there is and where, but I'm hoping for the t-shirtless scene where we get a little more information on the subject. Then there's the chin scruff and his geeky glasses.

Confession being good for the soul, do I think he's hot? Hail Mary! Bless you, Jesus!

But in case little skater punk Christians aren't your gig (and I can't imagine why not, but it's your choice and I won't stand in judgement) ... is the show any good? Hell to the yes.

Tammy Faye dotters around in the late stage of cancer. Even through the copious layers of mascara, she looks like death's knitting in the next room. Jay's wife is doing everything she can to get him to leave the ministry. (Oh, yes. He founded his own church called "Revolution" in 1999. It caters to youngsters and cashes in heavily on his street cred, but is funded deeply by the ultra-conservative fundamentalists. Sneaky Petes.) And his father, the disgraced Mr. Bakker, has Jay on his show just to serve his own needs. (Fancy that.)

In case that's not enough, the episode (#2) that I'm currently obsessing over has him saying things like (while leaving for the airport to see his father), "They're never gonna let me on [the plane]. I've got too much crap. It's because I'm carrying way too many Bibles."

Fish gotta swim. Birds gotta fly. I gotta love one punk skater Christian fundamentalist til I die. Watching him navigate his past by way of his present is fascinating stuff.

But even more interesting? Unbeknownst to anyone ... including the TV show ... he decided to use the attention of the show to announce that he's pro-gay marriage. And the cameras follow him to several unfriendly congregations where he does a sermon basically saying, "Hypocrites."

Incredible stuff. Go now!

Mystery Date!

Cute, cute, cute. For those of us who secretly played our sisters' Mystery Date when no one else was watching (oh, like I'm the only one), here's the version we were really fantasizing about.

Elf You!

Alas, I can't get this to play inside the blog, but I'd like to send my holiday wishes to you all by doing a special little dance.

Hey, Old Friends. Whaddya Say, Old Friends?

A shout out to my former Gappertons, the professional ex-wife and T-Dawg, for the cocktails. You two are the best that place has left to offer.

Word.

And my professional ex-wife's fiance is a pipin' hot little dish. Oh my god, that boy is adorable! I'd make a play for him myself if I didn't have so much hair on my breasts. But alas, I do. So take him with pride, sister! Take him with pride.

:::smooches:::

Spring Awakening

Every few years, a new show comes along in the Broadway season that suggests the bloated, over-produced, over-hyped mega-musicals are not the only things that can survive ... that there might be room for something smaller and different ... that there might be a group of people out there who want to push the form forward instead of just throwing a pile of gold-plated, $10 million piece of shit on stage.

In the past, it's been quirky little odd ball shows like Avenue Q or The 25th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee, both of which started off-bway and met with enough critical acclaim to warrant a move uptown.

This year the little show that could is Spring Awakening, a musical about teens coming into sexual awareness. A big ol' hit for the Atlantic Theater Company last season, it's opening on b'way tonight. And it's the one show I'm most looking forward to. Check out this business:




They've got their own little video of one of the production numbers. This shit is tight. Check it ooooooot. It's called "The Bitch of Living," which if you listen to the lyrics is a direct reference to ... uh ... masturbating. Rock on!!!

And then buy some tickets to it. Show the world that we can enjoy an evening in the theater that doesn't include a flying car, house, helicopter or chandelier. Please.

Beaches

Did I ever tell you you're my hero?

Sorry. Wrong beaches.

I'm coming to you live this week from Maui. So it's more like this beaches. The webcam for that live, streaming video is hanging off the edge of my balcony. Life is fucking tough, bitches, and this is what it looks like:



Just to prove how tough it is, on the first pic below is of The Christmas Queen, The Little Dutch Boy and I waving from the ocean this morning. The Husbear took this pic from the balcony of our condo:
















Which was shortly thereafter followed by me crashing and burning in the surf in a moment of what can only be described as Delicious Irony to all who were watching. This pic captures me trying to get the sand out of my ass during what can only be described as a Graceful Recovery.


It's gonna be a hard week. Brace yourselves.

A First Time For Everything

In case you didn't notice, this is my first time to print a retraction ... and my last. (If the Little Dutch Boy is still reading ... that obscure reference is for you, baby.)

So yesterday I suggested that Michael Richards was a racist but on the grand scale of racism through the ages, he probably ranked above your mother locking the car doors a little too quickly when your father drove through certain parts of town and just below ... oh, let's say ... the Grand Dragon of the KKK.

That was before I actually saw his apology on Letterman for myself, thanks to my Tivo unit that clearly is out to teach me a thing or two about tolerance in the American entertainment industry.

I'm seriously taking it all back. Seriously. Because of two things.

First, in his apology he said he said some pretty bad things to some "Afro Americans."

No, really. "Afro." I turned up the volume so loud and pushed the repeat button on the Tivo so many times to make sure, my neighbor started banging on the wall.

I suppose the word "wearing" in his sentence was silent. But come on, Michael. Out of touch much?

Second, as it all soaked in a bit, it occurred to me that had he tossed around the word "nigger" like Paul Rodriguez tosses around the word "faggot," he'd probably be a garden-variety racist.

Like Paul Rodriguez is. Oh, it's true. I wouldn't blog it if I hadn't heard it myself.

Instead, the very first thing out of his mouth was to pine for the old days when an uppity black would have been lynched. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is where Paul Rodriguez (and it pains me to say it) is right. There is a line you can't cross in speech, and that's the line where you in any way hint that someone should be ... uh ... taught a lesson.

Strange fruit, hanging from the Southern trees. Blood on the roots and blood on the leaves.

That's not to be dismissed so handily. I was wrong.

Godspeed, Mr. Altman

Robert Altman died today at the fabulous age of 81. Had it been up to a vote, I would have given him 81 more, as I'm certain he had so much more for us to see.

And just because this is all about me, he's the guy who inspired me to always have some place in my plays where people are intentionally talking all at the same time. When (if?) you ever hear my stuff and you notice it happening, give a little smile to honor his genius.

Godspeed, Mr. Altman. Godspeed.

But Some of My Best Friends are Spear Chuckers!

Michael Richards is not a racist. How do we know this? Because he says so. Not because he got heckled during a set at West Hollywood's Laugh Factory, prompting him to suggest to a black audience member that 50 years ago we'd have him "upside down with a fucking fork in your ass."

You could almost hear Mel Gibson sigh with relief.

Not content with this, Richards went on to toss "nigger" around more often than two teens on the 38 Geary bus. His current behavior notwithstanding, he dutifully went on to Letterman to make sure we all know he was not a bigot and was "deeply, deeply sorry."

What you really have to know he's sorry about is the invention of the video cell phone, which someone quickly trained on him to catch the majority of his rant. I have to admit, the printed version pales in comparison.

Is Michael Richards a racist? Of course he is. But probably not in the burn a cross on your lawn and wear a white hood while doing it sort of way. I'm betting he's the same type of racist you and I are.

Oh, that's right, buddy. You're a racist. Want proof? Look no further than Avenue Q, the Tony-winning musical, and its show-stopper tune "Everyone's a Little Bit Racist."

And I quote:

You're a little bit racist. And you're a little bit, too. I guess we're all a little bit racist. Admitting it is not an easy thing to do. But between me and you, I think everyone's a little bit racist sometimes. Doesn't mean we go around committing hate crimes. Look around, and you will find that no one's really color blind. Maybe that's a fact we all should face: Everyone makes judgements based on race.

'Nuff said. They're right. Michael Richards was stupid and showed bad judgement. But so did that guy in the audience yelling "That's uncalled for, cracker ass," and you don't see anyone turning the camera on him.

Then there's Paul Rodriguez, also on the bill the same night, who found a news camera as quickly as he could to say, "Once the word comes out of your mouth and you don't happen to be African American, then you have a whole lot of explaining. Freedom of speech has its limitations, and I think Michael Richards found those limitations."

Oh, Paul. Puhleeze. You use the word "faggot" like it's punctuation. And unless your hairdresser knows something we don't know ... you've got a whole lot of explaining to do, buddy. So how about you shut yer yap, my nigga.

Or someone's bound to get offended.

Sleeping With The Enemy

So Ken Mehlman, the newly deposed head of the Republican National Committee, is rumored to be gay.

Then there's our friend Ted Haggard, the Colorado minister who admitted (or denied) he had (or didn't have) sex with a male prostitute. Actually, a side note about Haggard ... for this isn't my point here, but I can't help but mention it: When the shit really hit the fan, rather than admit he had sex with a man, Ted swore it was a drug deal instead. And crystal meth at that.

Oh. Thanks for the clarification, Ted. Hand jobs now rank above drug dealing on the mortal sin continuum. I'll make a note of that. But you've confused the hell out of me, because when I came out, my mother said, "Of course I still love you. It's not like you're a drug dealer."

So between my mother and God, there seems to be some disagreement. Great. And even then, I have the sneaking suspicion neither of them have it quite right.

Anyhoo.

To round out the holy trinity of self-loathing is Mark Foley, the alleged pedophile and self-professed alcoholic homosexual who was smart enough to blame it all on being a cocksucking booze hound but not bright enough to know about things called chat logs.

This is almost all too much for my smart-ass heart to take. But the exposure of such hypocrisy is a hollow victory this time around. Because I want to just riff and riff and riff on it, but I can't bring myself to do it. And doesn't that just suck?

Because it's wrong to preach against and legislate against and politicize gay civil rights. It doesn't make it worse if you're gay and doing it.

No, really. It doesn't. You're not more evil for sucking dick while publicly railing against dick suckers. You're just more sad. You're just profoundly, inexplicably tragic. And lost.

Not to say that you get a pass. You step on the rights of gays? You should have no power. No matter what you're doing in your bedroom. You must be stopped.

But to wind up in a place where you're relentlessly tearing down the very thing you are? Then you're sleeping with the enemy. And you have far worse problems than the rest of us in the community.

I don't hate these men. I pity them.

Better Late Than Never

Well, finally.

It only took six years of the current administration and 12 years of Republican domination of the House and Senate before Democrats managed to regain control of congress. Six years of this administration before we collectively woke up from the "stay the course" haze that had somehow made us very, very sleepy. Not to mention very, very stupid. And now very, very in debt in every conceivable notion of the word and every far-flung corner of the world.

Granted it was done in a very dramatic fashion, which came as a bit of a shock to our Republican brethren and sisteren. And shocking Republicans is one of my favorite past times, don't get me wrong.

But excuse me for saying that while I'm thankful for the tourniquet to stop the bleeding, I can't help but remind everyone that we had the chance to save the rest of the leg a couple of years ago but somehow thought it better of it. And me being me, I'm not so thankful after thinking that. I'm just mostly annoyed. But all the same ... welcome back from the abyss, Ohio. All is forgiven.

Hail, Mary!

Gotta love a Fast Forward on the Amazing Race. Mary and David get a reprieve. Long may they reign.

Marked For Elimination

It's happened. We knew it would. So we just have to buck up and say it: David and Mary are in some deep shit on Amazing Race.

Unless they come in first tonight ... and let's face it, I have a better chance of accomplishing that, and I'm not even in the damn thing ... they'll have 30 minutes of waiting at the end of this next leg to find out if they're out of the running.

And I know those bastards at CBS will have edited the thing so I have no fingernails left. I'm not sure if I hate them more for manipulating me, or me for falling for it, but the drama may wear my frazzled nerves right out, I tell you.

So in case they flame out and have to return to the hills of Kentucky sooner rather than later, I'd like to say:

Oh, David and Mary. We hardly knew ye. But what we've seen, we've loved. And I personally thank you for showing that it's not just the rednecks that have their prejudices to get over. Being a card-carrying pinko cocksucker, I admit I read your bio and heard your accents and immediately assumed you'd be loud-mouthed, narrow-minded trash, threatened by anything and everything that wasn't 1) white or 2) sold at Wal-Mart. But you were not. And you met the gays, the blacks, the asians and a bowl full of fish eyes with open arms.

I salute you. And in your honor, I vow to once in a while not have my mind closed to people I'd usually have it slammed shut for. Until they open their mouths and say something so homophobic that they must be destroyed.

And when you head into those hills, keep your heads high. And please, Mary. Please, oh, please. Don't beat the shit out of David.

In the event they survive tonight by some miracle, I'm taking it all back. Until then, I'll be conducting a prayer vigil. Join me, won't you?

Lord of the Ring Mold

With Project Runway finished, I must now turn my attentions elsewhere. So why not give Top Chef a look?

It's early to tell. But this season's pretentious tool (the Stephen substitute) is clearly Marcel.

But who cares (yet) about what an ass he is. First, let's trouble ourselves with important things. I will begin with an open letter.

An Open Letter to Marcel's Hair:

Dude. What are you thinking? You look like Froddo. You look like a tweaked-out Hugh Jackman playing Wolverine playing Liberace.

You look like an idiot. Your ego is making you look like an idiot. Put the mousse down and back away before anyone gets hurt.

Seriously.

Sugar Baby Love

Since my last tirade about the death of my civil rights, I've been waiting to see something that made me laugh and feel joyful before I came back to bloggin' it out.

Took a while, but along it came in the strangest of places: A safe sex ad. Yeah, I know. Who'd've thunk it. (And to be fair, he made a hetero one, too. Almost as cute.)

But it's from the incredible French animator, Wilfred Brimo, and is a three-minute cartoon that was part of that country's AIDS awareness campaign.

Heartfelt, funny, joyful, poignant. Very, very sweet. Now I've got that flippin' song in my head.

It's a little racy, but only PG-13 racy. Still, consider yourself warned. And see if for some reason a safe sex campaign can't make you feel better somehow.

Not So Funny Business

On Thursday, the 1st District Court of Appeals upheld California's ban on gay marriage. This summer, high courts in New York and Washington states also refused to strike down laws prohibiting same-sex marriage.

Rusty and I have been together for the last 11 years. 11. Count 'em, you judicial fuckers. 4,015 days.

We own a house. And a dog. Well, it's more like the dog owns us. But we own the back yard he counts as his toilet. We've fought. We've laughed. We've fucked. Just like everyone else.

And for each of us, there was a time when we thought we were watching the other one die. Seriously. No hyperbole. There was one day in those 4,015 when it looked like I might bleed to death. And there was about a week in those 573 weeks when it looked like complications from Rusty's surgery were going to prevail.

Luck prevailed instead in both cases. But what if it hadn't?

Due to circumstances that aren't important to this rant, our house is in Rusty's name. Had he died, I promise you that the house we've laughed and fought and fucked in for the past decade would no longer be mine. His family would have rights to it that I'd be denied. They've never been in my home. Not that they wouldn't be welcome. But they've never wanted to be any part of the last 14,600 days of Rusty's life. And so they are not.

They don't send Christmas cards. They don't call on his birthday. They certainly don't invite us over for dinner. They don't drop by when they're passing through. They ... just don't.

But they'd own my home. And I'd be out. It would take just about as long as it's taken to type this.

Now of course you can say that we can protect ourselves from this by paying an attorney thousands of dollars to make certain I'm protected as well as I have to be. You're right. And we have ... but not everyone in our situation has that kind of cash or the wherewithal to know what to do.

But here's the question the high courts and every last pig-fucking mouth-breather who doesn't think Rusty and I deserve to be married should answer: Why should we have to do that?

Why is the right of survivorship something I have to pay for when other people wake up and have it for free? And don't get me started on taxes and the mountains of other things that all the money in the world to an attorney will never afford us.

Why should anyone in this country wake up and be three-fifths of what anyone else is? And why aren't we rioting in the streets?

I'll be funny tomorrow. Today, I simply can't afford it.

Proud Mary

So Amazing Race is having one of the best seasons ever. And I'm still giving all the thanks to Team Hillbilly. That woman is just a step away from my personal reality TV Hall of Fame. (Other inductees include the clowns and just about every other team that came in fourth place. I can really pick a winner, people.) Every week, I pray for just one more hour of Mary and David.

And speaking of just a step away, Team Peg Leg looks to be having troubles. This leads me to the obvious question: We all know it's tough when you break up with someone. But what happens if you break up with the guy who makes your legs? I have an ex that I can run into nearly a dozen years later, and it's still tense. And the only thing he ever made me was ... well ... not a damn thing. If he'd also been molding my prosthesis ... well ... I'm just sayin'. Tense.

It'd be especially tense because I don't have a prosthesis. But anyhoo. I'm just stalling. Because there's something bugging me, and I'm hesitant to bring it up.

Since confession is good for the soul, I'll just come out and say it. It's Team Miriam. Kirsten, an excellent blogger, good friend and winner of the the Friend Of Gays Lifetime Achievement award (it sort of looks like a jock strap made of Swarovski crystal ... I understand she keeps hers in her bathroom to throw guests off kilter), sort of likes them. I personally want to wrap them up in the yards of chiffon that fall from their mouths every time they talk and throw them into the river until their cha cha heels stop twitching.

What is it, I ask, about these two gay boys that gets under my skin? It's not like I'm the butchest dude on the planet. (As the Little Dutch Boy and I like to say, people who never suspect we're gay have clearly never heard us talk.) And another inductee in my Reality TV Hall of Fame is Austin Scarlett, who doesn't appear gay as much as he oozes it.

It occurs to me as I'm writing that it's not them. It's not that I think they should hetero it up. And if that was the case, it'd really bother me. Because I'm the guy who once ordered coffee from a 6'3" tall white boy with shoulder-length, green dreadlocks, silver platforms, a leopard print pillbox hat and sequined cats-eye glasses. And the only thing I thought was, "God, those glasses are fabulous."

So if I was suddenly turning 40, which I just did, and becoming embarrassed by the more flamboyant amongst us, it'd be a sad day. Instead, I'm turning a dark eye toward the producers, who insist on pigeon holing us as lisping little girls. You want to be a lisping little girl? Rock on, sister. And come sit by me. But you want to think that's the only way America can see us? Then shame on you. Shame, shame, shame. Bitches.

Up Against The Wall, You Redneck Mothers

So the Sweeney Todd bootleg got busted on YouTube. You can thank Actor's Equity for causing a stink. Does this mean I'll be blacklisted from getting my card? Just wait until I'm rich and famous. Then those bastards will be begging me to post things without regard to copyrights and such.

Just you wait. It's only taken 40 years so far. But I'm feelin' lucky.

Knotted, Polka Dotted, Twisted, Beaded, Braided

It was very sweet of my former professional wife to plug my blog and to compliment my humor in a recent post.

But then she starts posturing about how she has a lot more hair than I do in a clear attempt to provoke a blog feud. Now I don't know why sister needs to do that, given that more than two people read her posts (unlike my quiet corner over here).

But I love her, and I'm prepared to take the high road. If this is how she wants to talk about that back hair problem of hers, then so be it.

He Uses Antlers In All Of His Decorating

I just saw that Donny Osmond is "starring" in Disney's Beauty and the Beast on Broadway. As he's only playing Gaston and neither the beauty nor the beast, that "starring" credit is up for debate. But marketers will be marketers.

I digress, however. Imagine that.

Today's rant is actually about how his son came to opening night. His adult son. Who looks older than he does. There they are in the photo. With Donnie's face tighter than his progeny's.

Ick.

Amazing Race, How Sweet The Sound

How is it possible, I ask, for me to get as giddy about a new season of The Amazing Race as I have already?

Because I lead a simple, quiet life? Well, yes. And thank you for asking. But come on, people. There's a woman from Kentucky whose husband is a coal miner. And while he was offering suggestions to help her scale the Great Wall of China, she barked, "Step back and shut up. That's how you'll help me."

If you think Rusty haven't said similar to each other ... well, we haven't. But that's only because neither of us has been trying to scale the Great Wall of China.

I just saw a preview where she says, "We're from Kentucky, so we haven't met gay people. But I like them!!!"

Upon which her husband came out of the closet. Okay, okay. But *that* would be some good television. He has very pointy ears. It's odd. And the photos in their online bio are touched up. Girlfriend could use some orthodontics. Still, love her, love her, love her.

I do not love, however, Team Peg Leg. I don't care if girlfriend is leaking hydraulic fluid from her prosthesis or not. The second her ... boyfriend? ... said "When you get over that wall, Sarah, I'm going to cry," and she didn't reply, "Step back and shut up!", I knew there was more made out of plastic than just her knee caps. (He didn't cry, by the way.) Not to mention that anyone who ... dates? ... the guy who makes her fake legs creeps me out, people. Creeps. Me. Out.

Their bio says they have unresolved romantic feelings. I imagine he does, yes. For the junkie male models. What's up with women who fall for emotionally unavailable men? And what happens to their legs below the mid-thigh? It's a question for the ages.

Get Off My Skirt

There are those out there who wonder where I am. And why I haven't kept them entertained. And there are those who could give a shit. To both of you, I say: I've been working 15 hours/day as of late. So cut a girl some slack.

The Last Five Years

From today's New York Times editorial:

Today, every elected official in the country will stop and remember 9/11. The president will remind the country that he has spent most of his administration fighting terrorism, and his opponents will point out that Osama bin Laden is still at large. It would be miraculous if the best of our leaders did something larger -- expressed grief and responsibility for the bad path down which we've gone, and promised to work together to turn us in a better direction.

Personally, I'm waiting on the miracle. If only it would come.

Whoa, Nelly!

Who else could make Hedwig and The Angry Inch look tame but its creator, John Cameron Mitchell. I just saw the censored trailer for his new film, Short Bus. And let me tell ya ... I'm a little shocked. In a good way, of course. But most San Franciscans think they've seen it all. I'm guessing Mr. Mitchell is giving us more to see, God love him.

Check it out for yourself ... but be forewarned that even though censored it's adult and about ... well ... sex.

Some Things Are Worth Waiting For

Last week I was ready to walk away from Project Runway. It was too much to believe that the hands of the producers weren't guiding every move. And then something so delicious happens this week, that all is forgiven. I know the Little Dutch Boy is still out of range of a Tivo, so I won't divulge. But let's just say that if you fly to Paris, be prepared to leave quickly. It was everything I could ever want.

Speaking of everything I could ever want ... and to the two or three of you who reflexively thought, "James Gandolfini in a bathrobe?" - shame on you ... my former Professional Wife recently became engaged. I couldn't possibly be more happy, because she's a catch if there ever was one. I swear to you, if I wasn't so damn homosexual, I'd make an honest woman out of her myself. But since it can't be me, and since we're no longer professionally married, I have to say that she's landed a good one.

I know many of you will be checking for my endorsement, so I'm coming out with it early. That boy is a keeper. He not only received the first ever Gay Merit badge, he also recently nabbed the much-sought-after and often-coveted Good With The Gays seal of approval. What more could a heterosexual woman hope for? Marry the man, sister. And just a thought to hold onto as you make your plans: I look dynamite as a flower girl.

I Had A Farm In Africa

I loved Meryl Streep in Out of Africa. Almost as much as I love Peet's Coffee's soon-to-be-released Ethiopian Super Natural. It's in stores this Saturday. Buy it, people. Buy it and grind it fresh and drink it while thinking of the birthplace of coffee.

Too Much Tooty

I want it known that I'm dying to talk about "Project Runway," but the Little Dutch Boy might be my only reader, and the pressure is on not to divulge spoilers until he's once again clutching his Tivo remote.

So an open note to Laura will have to satiate me for now:

Laura. Honey. Baby. Listen. Too much boobage. If Bravo is fuzzing out your nipples, it's time to consider foundation garments. Immediately.

I feel much better.

Culture Wars

A poll released by Zogby International (you remember -- the people who said Kerry was going to win) this week says that only 25 percent of Americans can correctly name two Supreme Court justices. Compare this to the 75 percent who can correctly identify two of Snow White's dwarfs ... dwarves. (Dwarves are very upsetting.)

The poll also shows, in news that surely must have warmed Ruth Bader Ginsberg's heart, that 23 percent can name Taylor Hicks as the "American Idol" winner while only 11 percent can name Samuel Alito as the new Chief Justice.

All in all, not a great day for name recognition in the judicial branch. But this kind of culturally elitist crap gets my goatee. Samuel Alito was only on TV long enough to avoid questions about how he's going to help overturn Roe v. Wade. Taylor Hicks was on TV for weeks. In prime time. And it's no wonder we all know the drwarves; you can't swing a dead cat in Disneyland without hitting one of them.

If ol' Loose Lips Sink Nominationships Alito had a ride designed for him in Orlando or a multi-bajillion dollar ad campaign and recording deal to shake his money maker, of course we'd know him. If Antonin Scalia spent half as much time on The View as he did quietly chipping away at our civil liberties, he'd put the fame in famous.

And for those keeping score, I've named three Supreme Court justices so far, and I could keep on going, confirming what I've long suspected: I'm smarter than most of America.

A-ha! There it is. This is the equivalent of Paul Lynde singing "Kids! What the hell is wrong with these kids these days?" (Even fewer Americans can name that original cast album.) It's cultural elitism. It's the age-old suggestion that an abundance of pop culture makes us stupid.

George Bush Senior was once photographed looking in awe at a supermarket scanner. And he nominated David Souter and Clarence Thomas (five down ... four to go). Betcha he remembers their names. But was once amazed that the red light knew the price of a gallon of milk.

And I ask you: Just who's out of touch?

Not me. To show I'm of the people, I'm not even going to mention the other four. Instead, I'll close by saying: Greg, Marsha, Peter, Jan, Bobby and Cindy. The professor, the skipper, Gilligan, Mr. & Mrs. Howell, Ginger and Mary Ann.

It's The Little Things

I was just talking ... well, emailing ... with one of my favorite Gappertons of all time. (We're talking one of the original Gappy McGappertons, who secured entry into the Gapperton Hall of Fame by exclaiming, "Jesus, Kenneth. Gay much?" in front of our new boss.) Yes, you know who you are.

And I realized that tomorrow is my one-month anniversary with the gold standard coffee purveyor. (Brown aprons are the new black. Trust me on this.) This makes me very happy, as I like the new place. And the peoples are quite excellent.

But even better? I haven't touched Power Point for over a month. Seriously. I get a little misty with joy at the thought of it.

Those who know me well will recognize this as a major accomplishment. Take a moment and dab your eyes.

Those who don't know me well will wonder when I'm going back to harping about Mel Gibson. In good time, my pretties. All in good time.

Loathes And Fishes

Okay. One more thing about Mel. And I'm loathe to be political here. But someone has to say it. And a warning to the kiddies: I'm going to include a quote from Mel later on that uses very graphic language and profanity. Read this at your discretion.

I'm a touch amused at the punditry around whether Mel's career can come back after he came out as Mr. Kill A Jew. Well not so much amused at that. More amused (and when I say "amused," read that "annoyed") over how many people are suddenly outraged now that they've seen his true colors.

If you're ever-so-shocked, you just haven't been listening. Mostly because it's been about gays up to this point.

In 1992, Mel told the Spanish newspaper El Pais:

They take it up the ass. This is only for taking a shit [pointing to his butt]… But with this look, who’s going to think I’m gay? It would be hard to take me for someone like that. Do I sound like a homosexual? Do I talk like them? Do I move like them? What happens is when you’re an actor, they stick that label on you.

When asked in a 1995 Playboy interview if he'd apologize for these remarks, he said:

I'll apologize when hell freezes over. They can fuck off.

I really am loathe to rant politically here, so I'll keep the break down uncomplicated:

Mel: Anti-semite = apology. Homophobe = fuck off.

America: Anti-semite = career suicide. Homophobe = box office bonanza.

Now that we've got that straight ... people show us their true colors way before we want them to. It's up to us to pay attention.

Oh, yeah. And to care. Pay attention and care.

Give Me Aerosol, or Give Me Death!

Mike Douglas died today. At 81. On his birthday. Bummer.

Rumor has it he heard there'd be no more hairspray allowed in his carry on ... and that's just not a world he wanted any part of.

Godspeed, Mike. Heaven may be warmer because of the ozone your grooming regimen destroyed over the years. But Godspeed.

Heidi, Can You Hear Me?

What's with your fashion choices on Project Runway, Heidi? Last night you were wearing a top made from my Aunt Reba's guest bath shower curtain. And apparently there wasn't enough fabric to go around. What else could have possessed you to have a foot-wide gap down the front that showcased your commitment to breast feeding? It's nice that you have an environmental side, though. Trimming it all in cardboard indicated you care about post-consumer waste.

I'm not even going to talk about the boots, people. But after the runway show, I half expected Michael Kors to turn to her and say, "Before we start, let's talk about the catastrophe you've got on ..."

Is it possible to vote the host off for her lack of fashion sense? She's auf in neverland.

She's Super Freaky, Yeah. Temptations, Sing

Has Angelina really moved out of the house with the kids? And has Brad really freaked? Oh, who cares?

What'd really freak me out is figuring out how she got her lips to look like that without slamming them in a car door. That and the fact that she was into Billy Bob Thornton way after we were all over him.

Rule #1 when you're leaving your pouty-lipped girlfriend for another pouty-lipped chanteuse: Consider her past actions. And not the I wore my lover's blood in a vial, I went to the Oscars and acted like I was boinking my brother past. That's practically brunch conversation. Kid stuff.

It's the kid stuff I'm thinking Brad should have been worried about. We all do things to make us feel better. I, for example, buy shoes. Lots of shoes. Save for the structural engineering issues it creates in my closet, it's fairly harmless and reasonably affordable. But at multi-millions per picture, our girl went right past collecting shoes and dove head first into collecting Third World children.

It's a little precious to follow in the foot steps of Mia Farrow, but you gotta know it's less about saving them and more about filling a Jon-Voight-sized hole in Angelina's heart. And those pound puppies make the best pets. After doing hard time, you're less likely to pee on the rug.

I'm just sayin'. That's all. Nothing to freak out about.

No One Puts Baby In A Corner

When I've run afowl of the law and wind up with my face splashed all over the tabloids because I've exposed my true self, please remind me to make sure that Patrick Swayze is one of the first people to come to my personal defense.

He'll probably be pretty busy ... he is, afterall, breaking a cha-cha heel rushing to Mel Gibson's defense. But it's worth the investment. Just consider what he said about Mel's antics:

He is not anti-Semitic. People say stupid things when they happen to have a few (drinks), and especially if you don't drink anymore, or have limited your drinking for a long time. Everybody else gets to be allowed to have a stupid moment and nobody knows about it or cares the next day. So it makes it difficult when your life is under the microscope.

Okay. Patrick. Honey. If you get plastered and slobber all over your friends about how much you love them, *that* is a stupid moment. And your friends really do care the next day, but American society being what it is, they just repress their feelings like the rest of us. No harm-o, no foul-o.

But. If your friend has gone on record to support his holocaust-denying father when he's sober and spouted a mind-numbing level of vitriol after having several bottles of vino ... well ... that makes you, Patrick, the kind of person I want in my corner when it really hits the fan. Because who needs reason when blind loyalty will get your name mentioned in "Variety" again?

You, sir, should be ashamed of yourself. Just like the rest of us are.

For The Love Of Peet's

As I am leaving behind my work at the country's largest specialty fashion retailer for a position with the standard-bearer for fine coffee and tea (If you thought "Starbucks," leave this blog immediately. Friends don't let friends drink bad coffee. Especially at those prices.), I feel compelled to leave behind a few observations as well:

1. At the end of the day, it's still just a pair of jeans, kids. You can call it denim. You can weave it from the left, weave it from the right, stand up, sit down, fight, fight, fight. But it's jeans. Really. And we're all still the fourth grader whose parents made us buy the ugly ones from Sears. That's what we're trying to work through when we're adults with the critical choices of acid wash, sand blasting and distressed cuffs on our hands.
2. Clothing that comes from the lingerie department is underwear/sleepwear. Only your bathroom mirror, your mother and the person to whom you're currently attached need to see these items. I don't care if you bought it with your discount. I don't care if you're "wearing the brand." If you're wearing pajamas in my office, you're coming to work in your underwear. It's just that simple.
3. Some men like pleats on the front of their khaki pants. It's a sickness, but it's what they've chosen for themselves. And while I'll give you that it's an unspeakable horror, can we all agree that it's not an infraction that's greater than or equal to committing genocide in the Third World? Let's just love the sinner but hate the sin on this one, alright? The war crimes tribunal in The Hague thanks you.

If any of my Gappy McGappertons are reading this, you know that leaving my peoples is like wearing pleats. Unthinkable. Even on the craziest day ... and heaven knows there were more than we'd imagine ... I worked with the smartest, most talented, most committed and just plain funny as hell people. It's been a pleasure beyond measure.

But I have to admit: I'm craving me some coffee.

Thirteen Minutes

That's all it took before I spit Diet Dr. Pepper out of my nose. Thirteen minutes into "National Treasure," the bastard love child of "Amazing Race" and "DaVinci Code," and I'm snorting soda through my mucus membranes.

Where to start?

Perhaps the Wild Hanlons' patriarch's mullet? The way the camera glanced across the fat boy jumping into the water only to lavish its attention on the busty blondes? The fact that the African American brothers are from the Brown family?

Oh, yes. There it is. We have a starting place, my lovelies.

The Browns. Is it me, or are the casting directors of these shows getting a little feisty in their tacit racism? First there was the Black Family on last season's "Amazing Race," who happened to be ... uh ... black. And now the Browns who are ... uh ... not Asian. Or white. Or ... well, you get the point. You have to wonder where you find families with names that describe their race.

Coming next season on "Survivor": the Rices face off against the Crackers.

Anyhoo. There's racing around. There's ignorant yocals. There's clues where "Stillwater Washington" equals "Lake George." It's stupid. And I have to stop now so I can watch the rest of it. Pity me.

The Perfect Hard Boiled Egg

Bedeviled by dark rings around your hard boiled eggs? Do you fear judgement from your epicurian cohorts? Fear no more, friends. Fear no more.

Put a dozen eggs in a regular sauce pan and cover them with cold water with about an inch of water above the eggs. Put the uncovered pan on your stove over high heat until the water starts to boil. Starts to boil ... not boils like a big pot of pasta boil and not boil like there's only a couple of air bubbles on the bottom of the pan. Think of something in between those two things. Like Al Gore.

Now here's the trick: Water started boiling? Good. Take the pan off the heat completely, cover it and let it sit for exactly 13 minutes. No more heat. No lifting the lid to peek. (They're eggs in hot water. What are you expecting to see?) At the end of the 13 minutes, drain the hot water and *immediately* run cold water over the eggs. Add some ice if you're feeling gourmet. Anything to get the heat out of the eggs pronto.

And you'll have a hard boiled egg Martha Stewart would pat you on the back for. Of course she should ... it's her recipe in the first place. Well, okay. Probably some poor, harried staff member's recipe. But she's got all the muscle in that operation, so don't challenge her when she's patting you on the back. Just smile and say, "I couldn't have done it without you, Martha." She likes that kind of thing.

Attend the Tale of Jersey Boys

Listen, people. I'm the first person to say that Broadway is where art and commerce collide. Well, okay. Probably the second person. Cameron McIntosh, the bazillionaire behind "Cats" and "Phantom," probably mumbles it in his sleep now and then.

And this collision on the Great White Way often happens head-first with results that look like those scary films they showed you in drivers ed to convince you not to drink on prom night.

But "Jersey Boys" just won the Tony award for best musical. "Jersey Boys." Seriously. Let's take a page from the Pulitzers and not give something out for a year if this is what it's coming to.

Because call me crazy, but it's enough to ask us to fork over $125 for orchestra seats because 18 years ago Cameron thought a few flash bulbs and a "falling" chandelier sounded like a grand night out. Now we have to pay that kind of money to see a Four Seasons sing along. And the industry salutes it with the best marketing plaudit it can provide.

Instead of "Winner! Best Musical!" during their inevitable national tour, they should be required to say, "Winner! Best Musical. We're really, really sorry!"

And this coming from the man who once paid over $400 to see Harvey Fierstein in a housecoat in "Hairspray." So you know I'm serious about this.

And don't get me started on Patti LuPone being robbed of best actress ... and "Sweeney Todd" being jilted by the "Pajama Game."

Commerce killed art. Yet again. And I'll be back for the fall season, full of hope and promise ... and a $125 burning a hole in my pocket.

Dying Is Easy. Comedy Is Hard.

Okay. I know what you're thinking: "What's up with the blog name, Kenneth?" And I shall tell you.

Everything's temporary, kids. Take it from a dyed-in-the-wool drama queen ... there's always another act waiting in the wings.

Just between us, we're alone. So suck it up and be a mensch. No matter how bad it seems, it'll be over at some point. Because all bleeding stops eventually.

Speaking of eventuallies ... we always knew it was just a matter of time before I cracked and had to blog. I promise no themes but this: I'm bitter, jaded, cynical, romantic, funny and crass with an opinion on practically everything if you want to hear it or not.

If you're more in the "or not" column, don't be book-markin' this little way station. If you're remotely inclined, kick your feet up.

At the very least, I promise no mind-numbing chronicle of my daily activities. Just a lot of crankiness in the form of urbane observations on pop culture, food, theater, dogs, and men. Let's not forget the men.

Rock on, playas.